One of the men, an Italian, climbed to the forecastle deck in order to see more clearly what sort of danger they were running into.

He came back instantly, and his swarthy face was green with terror.

Though he spoke English well enough, he began to jabber wildly in his mother tongue.
None paid heed to him.

It was common knowledge that the vessel must be lost, and that those who still lived when she struck would have the alternatives of being drowned, or beaten to pieces against the frowning rocks, or shot from the mainland like so many stranded seals, if some alliance of luck and strength secured a momentary foothold on one of the tiny islets that barred the way.

And at such moments, when the mind is driven into a swift-running channel that ends in a cataract, elemental passions are apt to strive with elemental fears.